


Ulfric's Memories

by KittenJedi



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 23:02:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9406802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittenJedi/pseuds/KittenJedi
Summary: Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak of Windhelm wakes from a nightmare one night and ponders over his memories of Helgen, and the Nord in rags that sat beside him in the transport wagon.Mention of my Dovahkiin, Arien.





	

Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak of Windhelm had an excellent memory, particularly for small details. Of course, remembering the small details helped to enable him to remember things not quite so small. Many would call such a memory a blessing, but to him, it was a curse. He could remember so many things; things a part of him wished he could forget even while the rest of him railed against forgetting. Names, the faces that went with those names, the names whispered by the owners of those names and faces as they heaved their final breaths. The faces of the bereaved. The many faces worn by evil that stalked Tamriel. Particularly the guises of the Thalmor.

All Mer races could rot in Oblivion for all he cared. Elves were not to be trusted, particularly not with the fate of men, the fate of the world. His memories of the torture he had endured at the hands of the Thalmor were among the worse he suffered.

It was the smallest things that could bring a memory back to haunt him at any time. The clink of metal against metal, or the more solid thunk of metal against wood. The way motes of dust danced in a beam of light, the scent of hay on a warm day, of snow covered pine... Tonight it was damp pine logs smoking on the fire that brought the memories, had made him dream of Helgen and the events that had transpired both before and after. 

He had been able to wake from the nightmare, the memory, knowing that the end of it had been false, a change his mind had made. He did not let the memories leave him tonight, but confronted them, mulled them over in his mind so that he had the proper sequence of events. He sat in a carved wooden chair by the hearth in his room, staring moodily at the smoking logs which had finally decided to catch and burn after all. He wore only his smallclothes and the heavy quilted robe lined with fur he had pulled on upon leaving bed to keep the chill of the air at bay. A silver goblet of mead was in one hand, all but forgotten as he gazed broodingly at the flames.

The ambush that day near Darkwater Crossing had been inspired on the part of General Tullius. That Ulfric's scouts had not detected the damned Imperial troops was a moot point--they had all died in the skirmish when the majority of his men had been captured. The Imperials had taken him alive as they had desired, but he and his Stormcloaks had made them pay dearly for it in blood.

Once he had staggered and been knocked down the Imperials had piled upon him to hold him down, grind his face into the dirt. They had gagged him to prevent his use of the Thu'um and had forced him up to his knees to bind his hands before him. It took three to hold him and two to bind him, a fact he was proud of. Ulfric Stormcloak would not go down easily, not without a fight.

It was then that he saw her as he stared over the shoulder of the one who was gagging him, stared over the man's shoulder and into the woods beyond. The girl was paused between the trees with a look of confusion and fear on her face, looking like a startled doe that was on the verge of fleeing.

He had urged the girl to run with his eyes, but she had not met his gaze, looking at the carnage and aftermath with such consternation, as if she had not known that such things could happen in the world. She wore nothing but rags of a coarse, unbleached fabric, and was so petite Ulfric thought her to be a child from the distance.

It was his gaze on her that had brought the attention of the Imperials to her, and for that Ulfric had difficulty forgiving himself. He should have looked away from her, glared at the Imperial lapdogs, but no. He had entreated her to run with his gaze, a gaze that had attracted those of the Imperials. Finally she ran, but they were after her like hounds on a fox. She didn't get very far, and he had been able to see the entire thing. Ulfric had to give credit where credit was due, however; she fought like a cornered sabre cat. The fight only ended when one of the damned Imperial Legionnaires slammed the pommel of his sword into the side of her head, knocking her unconscious.

For a moment Ulfric had wondered (indeed, he had even hoped) that the girl had been killed by the blow, but it seemed that she had been crafted from the very ice and stone of Skyrim, for the Imperials had checked her, found her alive, bound her hands before her, and tossed her unceremoniously into the back of a wagon that had been outfitted with crude benches on either side of the bed to serve as prisoner transports. One of his men had already been loaded into the wagon, and had tried briefly to rouse her, until the Imperials had struck him for his troubles.

A man in rags similar to those the girl wore had apparently attempted to steal a horse from the Imperials just before the fighting had broken out, and he was placed in the same wagon, forced beside the Stormcloak soldier.

Then the Imperials had forced Ulfric to his feet and forced him onto the same cart, jeering at him, at how the mighty Jarl now had to share space with a horse thief and a pathetic beggar woman. Ulfric had fought the urge to laugh, as one of the men doing the jeering had an eye that was beginning to swell shut thanks to that "pathetic" beggar woman.

He had not bothered to try and make any noises through the gag though. He kept his back as straight as the skyforge steel sword he had been gifted in his youth, and kept his head high as he took his seat on the crude bench in the prisoner wagon, sitting beside the girl and across from the thief.

Once the remainder of his men had been loaded into another wagon for transport ("So few left, so many dead." he remembered thinking mournfully) the Imperials set out to take them somewhere under heavy guard.

The journey had taken hours, with only two brief stops to water the prisoners (save Ulfric, for the Imperials clearly did not dare remove his gag, fearing the power of his Thu'um) and rest the horses. The horse thief remained silent, as had the Stormcloak soldier... Ralof. Ralof was his name, Ulfric recalled as he sipped at his mead. He knew the names of all the men under his command. Had known. Was there a difference any longer, with so many dying for the freedom of Skyrim and her people?

The girl had remained unconscious for nearly the entire trip. Ulfric had studied her some, surprised to find that the small thing was a young woman, not a child as he had originally thought. Her frame was slender and petite, the rags she wore too large for her and obscuring her curves until one was closer. He assumed she was a Nord, based on her snowdrop pale skin (had she been confined away from the sun somewhere to leave her so pale, he had wondered) and fair gold hair, bound back from her face in a common style of two braids on either side of her head pulling her hair back and out of the way. Though instead of ending in a short tail bound with leather cords she had taken it a step further, catching the remainder of her hair up into a single braid and pinning it into a bun with a hairpin that was a twig stripped from a tree, likely in passing. Such a small detail, and one he had wished he could remedy at the time. Give her something more than what she had scavenged in the woods.

Her features were delicate, as was her build, which caused him to wonder if she was of mixed blood--Nords were hearty. They had to be, to survive the harsh life their beautiful homeland Skyrim demanded of them. He noticed that her arms--particularly above her elbows--were marked with scars, many looking like burns, though there were long scars on her inner wrists, going down the length of her arm from wrist almost halfway to elbow.

Finally, as they neared what Ulfric was recognizing to be Helgen in Falkreath hold, she had begun to stir, and then woke, looking around as if in a daze, eyes too large for her face.

Eyes...

Another detail that would forever haunt him. Her eyes.

Ulfric had never seen anything like them before, not on a person. Her right was the warm brown of freshly tilled damp soil in spring, while the left was the emerald green of grass and new leaves in the same season. Large, striking eyes that were filled with such innocence and confusion.

At least, they had been filled with innocence and confusion until she saw that she was surrounded on all sides by menfolk, at which point her expression had become one of sheer terror as she tried to draw in on herself and press as far into her seat as she could. Ralof had begun talking, trying to calm her in his easy way and Ulfric found himself wishing he had been able to do the same. Yet her reaction upon waking had handed him the answer as to why she had fought the Imperials who had gone after her as hard as she had. How many men had used and harmed the slight creature that sat beside him until the sight of strange men brought only terror to her, he wondered then, still wondered as he mulled over the memories.

She said nothing, remaining silent even when spoken to directly by Ralof as they entered the city. That was when Ulfric had begun to wonder if she was moon-brained, pity for her uncoiling in his heart and churning in his gut. Scarred and abused, with only the wits of a small child, if that. If she truly was moon-brained, what lay ahead would be a blessing in disguise for her. She would be executed, yes, but in Sovngarde she would be freed from her affliction. Would know the end of her pain and fear.

He refused to look at her any longer after that. They would all be free in Sovngarde soon. Why dwell on the troubles of the present when that was such a short time away?

Not that he had given up. Not Ulfric Stormcloak, leader of the Stormcloak rebellion. He was trying to loosen his bonds with the aid of a poorly hammed nail on the bench he sat upon.

The bindings on his wrists were nearly at the breaking point when the Imperials stopped and forced them off the wagons, reading their names and marking them off in ledges as if they were worthless goods and not true sons and daughters of Skyrim.

He had been the first to be called, of course. He strode to the courtyard, eying the headsman and chopping block coolly, keeping one eye and one ear on the Imperials and his men while he stood tall and proud, prepared to attempt to make his escape as soon as an opportunity presented itself.

The girl was the last to be called. A Nord as he had suspected, but from her words when she had responded to the Imperials demanding her identity, she proved to be one who was certainly not moon-brained.

"I am Arien. Of no-where in particular."

Her voice was soft, as soft as the coo of the doves that would occasionally roost outside the windows of the Palace of Kings, but also faintly musical. Those few words were burned into his memory, just as her eyes were.

Had it not been for Anfelt, impetuous and impatient as always but a good soldier, "the Nord in rags" as the Imperial Captain had referred to the Arien, she would have been first to feel the kiss of the headman's axe.

Then, as they shoved Anfelt's body away and forced Arien down, stretching her neck out on the block, the dragon came, wrecking havoc in the courtyard, and then all of Helgen, stone and mortar structures giving way before the dragon's Thu'um just as those of wood and straw did.

Ulfric had used the distraction to his advantage, snapping his bonds, killing an Imperial Legionnaire and taking his blade, using it to cut the bonds of as many of his men as he could before reaching the safety of a tower with them. He had thought he was the last one to enter, until Ralof came, leading the girl, who was unsteady on her feet, understandably so. Ulfric slammed the wooden door to the round tower shut behind the two of them. He had saved the Stormcloaks that he could; to leave the door open any longer would be to invite the dragon in from what had been Helgen but was now its own slice of Oblivion.

Ulfric had given the order to move, Ralof suggesting that they go up through the tower, perhaps find another way out from the top. Not a bad plan, really.

Arien had run up the stairs first, hands still bound in front of her. Ulfric silently cursed both Ralof and himself for leaving her bound when anyone would need both their hands and all their wits about them to survive the attack.

Then she had surprised him but turning towards him and throwing the slight weight of her frame against Ulfric's, taking him off guard and shoving him against the wall of the tower. Then Ulfric saw the dragon head sticking through the wall, felt the hot blast of it's flaming Thu'um and realized with more than a little shock that she was trying to shield him with her body. She barely even reached his collarbone on even footing, and was still trying to shield him at the cost of herself.

Then the dragon was gone and she was pulling away, looking up into his eyes to make certain he was all right.

Their gazes locked for only a moment before she turned away, leaving Ulfric to wonder who she was. To be so afraid at first, but to face death in the courtyard without tears or whimper, and then to turn and protect him so... As he swirled the mead in his goblet he allowed himself to wonder (not for the first time) if the Nine had sent the spirit of Skyrim to him in a time of need. He discarded that thought as he had before, but it was one that still cropped up from time to time.

So many questions. So few answers.

Ulfric's last sight of her had been when she leapt from the hole the dragon had made in the tower through a hole in the roof of the nearby inn, at the coaching of Ralof and himself, her hands still bound.

There were moments, at least once daily, when he found himself wondering if she had managed to escape Helgen, or if she had died there as so many others had, Imperial and Stormcloak alike.

That had been the nightmare tonight. The smell of pine smoke, the feel of her small soft body against his. Those odd, mismatched eyes meeting his, a flash of a smile that lit up not only her face but the entire tower, before the dragon had stuck his head back in and roasted her alive.

Ulfric knew it had been a nightmare. He remembered how he had last seen her, leaping so fearlessly from the tower.

He finished his mead and set the goblet aside before standing and stretching, feeling and hearing joints pop. Then he made his way back to his bed, wondering if the Divines would at least allow him to see her again, to be able to wake from the nightmares of Helgen with the knowledge that she had indeed survived.

It would also be nice to see if her smile was truly as brilliant as it was in his dream, he mused, not to mention see if he could at least remedy the issue of the hairpin that had bothered him so.


End file.
